I Am Ozzy
Page 37
They’re called the Osbournes.
One of the great things about the show was that it allowed Sharon to go off and have a successful career in TV. After she got through her chemotherapy, all I wanted was for Sharon to be happy, and when she got the gig as a judge on The X Factor, she loved it. When Sharon wanted to leave after the fourth season, I said to her, ‘Look, are you absolutely sure this is what you want to do, because if it is then I’m completely behind you.’ And in the end, it worked out very well for her, because now she’s having the time of her life doing America’s Got Talent.
I must say I thought my life would become a bit more normal after The Osbournes ended. Fat fucking chance. Welders House almost burned down three times, for a start. Then I nearly murdered a cat burglar in the middle of the night in my own bathroom.
I swear this kind of crazy shit only ever happens to me.
If it hadn’t been for my dodgy bladder, I wouldn’t even have seen the guy. But I’m up and down during the night like a fiddler’s elbow, I am. It’s because I drink so much liquid, even when I’m not boozing. The cups of tea I make are the size of soup bowls. And I can get through a dozen of them a day. Whatever I do, it’s always to excess.
Anyway, the break-in happened just before dawn on Monday, November 22, 2004. I woke up busting for a piss, and luckily I wasn’t loaded on anything more than the usual pills, so I wasn’t staggering around, falling into things. I just got out of bed, stark bollock naked, and walked into the bathroom, which leads through to this little vanity area. I switched on the lights and lifted up the toilet seat, and as I did so, I glanced towards Sharon’s dressing table.
There he was: a bloke about my height, dressed head-to-toe in black, a ski mask over his face, crouched down, but with nowhere to hide.
It’s hard to describe the kind of fright you get when something like that happens. But then the urgency of the situation takes over. As soon as he knew that I’d seen him, the bloke legged it to the window and tried to climb out. For some reason – God knows why, given how much of a chickenshit I am – I ran after him and got him in a headlock before he could get his whole body through the gap. So there he is, this cat burglar, on his back with his eyes twinkling up at me, and I’ve got my arm around his throat. Suddenly I’m thinking: Right, what now? We seemed to be there for ages, neither of us saying anything, while I decided what to do.
If I pull him back inside, I thought, he might have a crow-bar, or a gun. I also thought he might have had a friend outside, waiting to help out in an emergency. And I wasn’t exactly up for a fight at four o’clock in the morning. I didn’t have my Rambo attire on, put it that way. So then I thought, Why don’t I just kill the bastard? I mean, he was in my house, and I hadn’t invited him. But did I really want to live with the fact that I’d taken someone’s life, when I knew I could have let him go?
In the end, I just threw the fucker out of the window, which was on the second floor. I could hear him crash through the branches of a tree on his way down. Then I watched him hobbling across the field, yelping with every step. With any luck, he broke something.
He got away with two million quid’s worth of jewellery, and the cops never caught him. The stuff was insured, but you never get back the full value with those things. I suppose I should have shouted for Sharon to press the alarm button, but I didn’t think. And she didn’t know anything about it until it was all over.
But it’s only stuff, isn’t it? And it could have been a lot worse. He could have beaten me over the head with a baseball bat while I was asleep. He could have raped Sharon. I mean, you hear people down the pub saying, ‘Oh, I’d fucking love that to happen to me, I’d show the bastard,’ but believe me, when you’re taken by surprise like that, it’s a lot different.
I’ve bought a few guns since then, mind you, so if there’s ever another bloke, he won’t have it so easy. Then again, I don’t know if I’d have the nerve to shoot someone. And you’ve gotta be fucking careful with guns. It’s like my father always said to me, if you ever pull a weapon on somebody – no matter what it is – you’ve got to be fully prepared to use it, because if you’re not, the other guy will see the doubt in your eyes, and he’ll take it off you and use it on you instead. Then you’re really in trouble.
The day after the burglary, the press went crazy, as they always do with stories about me. ‘NAKED OZZY’S RAGE AS HE FIGHTS JEWELLERY ROBBER AT HIS HOME’ said the Sun’s headline. Then some of the other papers sent reporters to Aston to write about how I’d robbed Sarah Clarke’s clothes shop, and how it was ironic that I was now complaining about being a victim of burglary. I thought that was a bit of a stretch, to be honest with you. I was just a stupid kid when I broke into Sarah Clarke’s; I was hardly the fucking night stalker. And I learned my lesson.
In 1965, the clothes I nicked were worth about twenty-five quid, and I thought that was all the money in the world. I never would have believed that forty years later I’d have two million pounds’ worth of stuff for someone to pinch – and enough left over to not really notice when it was gone. It’s ridiculous, really. My life should never have happened the way that it did. But, believe me, I’m grateful. Not a day goes by without me thinking about where I came from, and where I ended up, and how no one in their right fucking mind would have put a bet on it turning out that way.
The Boy Prince of Darkness.
With Mum and Dad. They put up with a lot.
My dad promised me long trousers for my sister Jean’s wedding. I got these fucking things instead.
Blame this on Jim Simpson. It was his idea to hold the ‘Big Fear Follies’ – naked.
© Neil Preston/Corbis
Bill Ward, Geezer Butler, Tony Iommi and me, at Long Beach Arena. Dunno why we look so miserable – we were all as high as kites.
No, I’m not in the pub. I’m in the kitchen of ‘Atrocity Cottage’, which I’d made to look like a pub. That’s my oldest daughter, Jessica.
With Jess again and my son Louis.
© WireImage
Me, the lads from Black Sabbath and, err… a rubber chicken. In London. Wearing new clothes ’cos we’d just got a record deal.
© Michael Putland/Retna
Fresh faced. And pissed, probably.
Peace…
On stage with Tony.
… and love, man.
© Michael Putland/Retna UK
The lads from Aston made good. This was our ten-year anniversary. Unusually, we decided to get completely shitfaced for the occasion. Within a few months I’d be fired.
© Richard E. Aaron/Redferns/Getty Images
Going solo. This was the Diary of a Madman tour line-up. From left to right: Rudy Sarzo, Randy Rhoads, me and Tommy Aldridge.
Randy Rhoads and Rachel Youngblood, posing next to the tour bus in America. God bless them both.
© Chris Talter/WireImage
On stage with Randy. This is how I remember him best.
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The greatest guitarist of his generation – and a man before his time.
Getting hitched in Maui, 1982. There were seven bottles of Hennessy in that cake – later, I passed out in the hotel corridor. Good job the marriage was already consummated.
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Fangs for the memories!
I was on so many drugs in 1983, I was on another planet. That must be why Aimee is wearing a space suit.
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With my beautiful girls.
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Harley Street has some great dentists.
© London Features International
A bad hair day – again. Promo shot for Bark at the Moon.
© Tony Mottram
Hitching a ride with Kelly.
With Sally, my pet donkey. She used to live with us at Outlands Cottage and watch the telly with me.
With Kelly and Aimee.
Before…
© L
ynn Goldsmith/Corbis
… After
© London Features International
Getting a load off my mind.
I’d shaved my hair off to get out of doing the gig. Sharon sent me out anyway.
© Ron Galella/WireImage
After a grade-one bollocking from the missus.
© Rex Features
A postcard from Memphis.
Another quiet night in with Mötley Crüe.
On the QE2, bored out of my fucking mind. Sharon was pregnant with Jack so we couldn’t fly.
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Back together for Live Aid in 1985 – Bill, me, Geezer and Tony.
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On stage at Live Aid with Tony.
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I still had a drinking problem. I couldn’t find my mouth.
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A rare picture of the full Osbourne clan.
This time, it was just a joke.
Me and Jack. At that age, his favourite thing to do was sit on my shoulders during encores.
© George Chin
Relaxing at home with Jack and Kelly – and the best friend I’ve ever had, Baldrick the bulldog.
© Joe Giron/Corbis
‘How many songs do I have left to sing?’ At Ozzfest in 1996.
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After another kick up the arse from Tony.
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Wish I still looked like this.
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‘I seem to have lost my watch. Can anyone see it up there?’
My sons were taught good manners from an early age. Me, Louis and Jack on my fiftieth birthday in 1998.
My beautiful daughters – Kelly, Jessica and Aimee.
© Mark LeialohaM
Warming up…
… and chilling out.
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A promo shot for The Osbournes in 2002. We had no idea what we were letting ourselves in for.
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On The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and Sharon, just after the madness began.
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Getting a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in April 2002. Left to right: Jack, Marilyn Manson, me, Robbie Williams and Kelly. Not sure I want to know what Marilyn’s thinking about.
© Albert L. Ortega/WireImage
With my biggest fan.
© Getty Images
Having a blast with Kelly. Our duet of ‘Changes’ went to number one in 2003.
© George Chin
At Welders House, messing around on my dirt bike.
© George Chin
Before…
… and after. I broke my neck, my collarbone, eight ribs and punctured my lungs, and was in a coma for eight days.
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With Elton, the most generous man I’ve ever met.
© Frank Micelotta/Stringer/Getty Images
Meeting Liz Taylor. My father once told me she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
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My rock ’n’ roll hero.
Shaking hands with the Queen. She didn’t have to bring me flowers.
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And meeting, err… me. Filming with impersonator Jon Culshaw. That’s him on the left. I think.
© George Chin
Wish I’d been dressed like this when I caught the burglar in my house in 2004.
With Maggie, one of my seventeen dogs.
© Getty Images
Me and Sharon, just after the burglary. We lost £2 million worth of jewellery.
On stage at the Tower of London for the Prince’s Trust in 2006.
© Frank Micelotta/Stringer/Getty Images
Black Sabbath being inducted into the Hall of Fame with Tony (centre) and Bill (far right).
Arm in arm with my sisters. From left: Gillian, me, Iris and Jean.
Sharon, trying to keep my hand away from the knife, at my sixtieth in December 2008.
My incredible family.
Patient Notes
Hidden Hills, California 2009
‘OK, Mr Osbourne, I’m going to ask you a question,’ said the doc. ‘Have you ever taken any “street drugs”?’
This was the new guy I went to see when I decided to get clean. I’d spent almost forty years blasting the booze and the pills, so it seemed like a good idea to see what kind of damage I’d done.
‘Well,’ I told him, with a little cough, ‘I once smoked some pot.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
The doc carried on prodding me and checking his notes. Then he stopped and asked, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well,’ I said, with another little cough, ‘I’ve taken a bit of speed. A long time ago, y’know?’
‘So just the pot and a bit of speed?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
The doc carried on doing his thing. But after a while, he stopped again. ‘Are you absolutely sure it was just the pot and the speed?’
‘Well, I suppose I’ve had a few toots of the old waffle dust in my time,’ I said. I was starting to warm up now.
‘So pot, speed and… a few lines of cocaine?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
‘And you’re sure about that?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I just want to make absolut—’
‘Does heroin count?’
‘Yes, heroin counts.’
‘Oh. And heroin, then. Just once or twice, mind.’
‘Are you sure it was just once or twice?’
‘Oh, yeah. Fucking crap drug, heroin is. Have you tried it?’
‘No.’
‘Too much throwing up for my liking.’
‘The nausea can be intense, yes.’
‘It’s a waste of booze, that’s what it is.’
‘OK,’ the doctor snapped, ‘let’s just stop this. Are there any drugs you haven’t taken, Mr Osbourne?’
Silence.
‘Mr Osbourne?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’
More silence.
Finally, the doc said, ‘And what about alcohol? You mentioned that you drink. How many units per day?’
‘Oh, about four? Give or take.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Bottles of Hennessy. But it depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how long I pass out between them.’
‘And it’s just the Hennessy?’
‘Well, beer doesn’t count, does it?’
The doc shook his head, let out a big sigh, and started to rub his eyes. He looked like he wanted to go home. Then he asked, ‘And do you smoke, Mr Osbourne?’
‘Now and again.’
‘What a surprise. How many per day, would you say?’
‘Oh, thirty-ish?’
‘What brand of cigarettes?’
‘Cigars. I don’t count the cigarettes.’
The doc started to go very white. Then he said, ‘For how long has this been your typical daily routine?’
‘What year is it?’ I asked him.
‘2004.’
‘Nearly forty years, then.’
‘And is there anything else in your medical history I should know about?’ asked the doc.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I got hit by an aeroplane once – sort of, anyway. And I broke my neck on a quad bike. Then I died twice during the coma. I had AIDS for twenty-four hours, too. And I thought I had MS, but it turned out to be a Parkinsonian tremor. I broke my clack that other time. Oh, and I’ve had the clap a few times. And one or two seizures, like when I took the codeine in New York, or when I date raped myself in Germany. That’s it, really – unless you count the abuse of prescription medication.’
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The doctor nodded
Then he cleared his throat, loosened his tie, and said, ‘I’ve got one last question for you, Mr Osbourne.’
‘Go ahead, Doc.’
‘Why are you still alive?’